


STAY.

by LizardWhisperer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Angel Mojo, BDSM Scene, Destiel - Freeform, Domestic Discipline, Fuck you Dean HATES cuddles, Good Boy, Little Dean (NOT age play), M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Orders, Pre-Relationship, Protective Castiel, Spanking, Tickles, belt, consensual spanking--sort of, handjob, play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:19:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9260081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizardWhisperer/pseuds/LizardWhisperer
Summary: Even DD relationships need a day off and with Sam gone off to parts unknown, Cas and Dean have the bunker all to themselves.  It's play time and Castiel will give Dean everything he needs--all he has to do is stay.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deadmockingbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadmockingbirds/gifts), [KreweOfImp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KreweOfImp/gifts), [Dangerousnotbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/gifts), [BellaRisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaRisa/gifts), [chocolatedragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatedragon/gifts).



> This work is for my friends--there's a little something-something for you all in here, you know who you are.

Lying prone on his memory foam, Dean’s breath rushed hotly past his lips.  He’d been told to stay, so stay he would. He wouldn’t move a finger or a toe--he barely blinked as he drew the air around him begrudgingly, already having attempted to still even his breath, driven by his need to submit, to obey—to please.  Of course, all the stunt had got him was a fire in his chest, a tingling around his nose and mouth, and a swimming head—and not the good kind.

Dean lay and waited, while his brother’s presence was made scarce in the bunker, assuring privacy for the next few hours.  The hunter suppressed a smirk (he hadn’t been given permission to smirk), wondering where Sam had been sent off to this time; the library? Perhaps to interview some witness to some fantastical supernatural crime, one who would answer his even more fantastical questions honestly and without hesitation—because that’s the superpower of a Winchester in a suit. 

One time, Dean’s brother came home with a bagful of groceries, but nothing for dinner.  The younger hunter cleared his throat and averted his eyes from Dean’s wide ones, as he unpacked a bag of massive carrots, a few knotted clumps of ginger root, and a _case_ of whipped cream.  Sam dropped the items on the stainless-steel counter, forcefully returned the remaining change—then went MIA for three days.  THAT had been one magical—not to mention nutritional--long weekend.  Down below Little Dean chanced a happy wiggle.

Lost in thought, Dean missed the sound of the door, the rustling tan, and the controlled footfalls, until he felt the bite of nails run up his spine, nesting themselves deep in his hair, raking his scalp.  And then, _the voice_ came low, cavernous, from a gravel-filled throat, “Did I say you could smile?”

Shit.

Taken aback, Dean forgot to answer and was rewarded with slender fingers entwining themselves tightly against his crown.  Little Dean twitched.

“N-no, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

The hairy grip tightened, lifting Dean’s cheek off the pillow as _the voice_ spoke closer his ear, “What’s so amusing Dean, hmmm?  What were you thinking?”

Honesty seemed like such a swell policy just then, that Dean chanced, “I was thinking about that weekend you skewered me with roots and made sundaes in all my orifices.”

Was that a—snort?

“Sir,” Dean added quickly, sure he must have heard wrong.  Silence.

Shit.

“S-Sir?  I told the truth, it—“  the rest of Dean’s words got caught under his tongue, as it was clamped between his teeth.  The world spun a moment before the hunter landed on his back, thudding into the memory foam and its total lack of kickback—while the view got quite a bit more enjoyable.

Dean’s angel caged him in with his trench-coated arms, dark dress slacks straddling the hunter’s bare knees—the most peculiar look in his ridiculously blue eyes.

“What did you call that? The Lost Weekend, I believe,” said the angel.

“Yes, Sir,” Dean told those eyes, lost in their sexy blue sea.  Dean continued to stare, as something phenomenal happened.  The sea narrowed and twinkled—the fucking sea twinkled—then the bed shook slightly, the sea rolling happily, as Castiel let out a chuckle.  His voice softened with mirth, as he played with the memory, “You had whipped cream in your ears, across your toenails, and I’m still rather proud of the replica of the Washington Monument I created from your cock.”

Dean’s need to be the best boy he could for Castiel lost out to the angel’s infectious laughter, combined with the creamy memory of Cas’ amazing angel constitution, allowing his lover to suck can after can of dairy topping off his body, without even a burp.

Giggling like a schoolgirl, Dean absently placed his hands on Castiel’s chest, toying with the clear buttons on his shirt.  He loved to undo Cas’ dress shirt while the angel still wore his tie, kissing the smooth chest underneath, while the striped blue material trailed across the hunter’s cheekbone.  Why was it so hot?  Who cares, it was.

But Dean’s revelry ended abruptly, when iron hands gripped his wrists, slamming them into the spongy bed surface, pinning them either side of Dean’s head, which plopped back on his pillow in clear disappointment.

Castiel wasn’t laughing anymore.  “What did I tell you, before I left the room, Dean?”

Swallowing the tennis ball in his throat, Dean rasped “Stay. You told me to stay, Sir.”

Raised brows widened the rings around the deep blues.  “And did you, Dean—stay?” A single brow rose even higher.

The laughter had been fun, the memory an amusing playful trip, but now there was no mistaking that the pleasure cruise was over.  Dean fucked up…but then, Dean always fucked up.  As much as he truly wished to please his angel, to be his pride, his good boy—Dean craved the discipline that misbehavior guaranteed.  While he hadn’t moved on purpose, per say, Dean’s oversight was nonetheless no accident.  From time to time, the hunter simply gave his top an excuse, a reason to punish him.  It’s what they both wanted.

Not that Dean was exempt from actual misbehavior and the domestic discipline it brought; that’s actually how the hunter and the angel’s relationship had grown from friendship to—to what they had become.  Dean was a damn good hunter, a damn good brother, and a damn good friend.  What Dean wasn’t so good at was self-care, self-preservation, and was most grossly lacking in the self-esteem department. 

Unwilling to witness his self-destruction, Castiel had seen fit to take the older Winchester in hand.  At first, Dean had responded to the angel’s ministrations of corporal punishment with stoicism, then anger and resentment, if not a period of watching his p’s and q’s.  Sam was horrified, yet clearly outmatched by Castiel.  Still, the younger hunter found he couldn’t argue with his friend’s good intention, while expressing a stalwart disapproval of his method.  Cas had saved Dean from Dean time and again--the hunter's life nearly lost to his own recklessness. Finally, during a particularly harsh hand spanking that followed one such incident, Dean’s resolve fell to pieces. It hurt like the blazes, but what finally broke the hunter was the angel's restraint from scolding him, instead describing the brightness of his soul, what a difference Dean made in the world, and how important he was—both to his brother and also to Cas himself.  When Castiel’s calm voice reassured the hunter that he deserved to be saved, (all the while steadily pounding away at his naked backside) Dean totally lost his shit.  Ending the punishment, the angel scooped up his sobbing charge, bridal style, and paced the small motel room, rocking Dean in his arms, softly repeating his compliments, and stressing again and again the hunter’s importance to him.  Meanwhile, Dean’s emotions ran the gamut from embarrassment and distress to complete consolation.  He knew he should feel humiliated, being carried and swayed like a baby, his pants at half-mast, but even his burning bottom couldn’t distract him from the comfort and safety his best friend provided.  “You’re important to me too,” Dean hiccuped into the angel’s chest, soggy with his tears.  “I’m s-sorry I risked my life. Sorry I worried you.”

“I was terrified, Dean.  Terrified I’d lose you,” Cas spoke into Dean’s hair, planting a kiss on his crown.

Dean disengaged his snotty, salty face from Castiel’s dress shirt, as his red eyes met those familiar blues.  “Yeah?”

The angel smiled, “Yeah, Dean,” he planted another soft kiss on the hunter’s forehead, “Because you are so very important to me,” repeated Cas for umpteenth time.

The angel pressed his lips tentatively on Dean’s cheek, then a playful peck on the nose, before Dean tilted his head back and invited the inevitable. 

The domestic discipline relationship that followed often baffled Sam, who was content to live ignorantly if the details of his brother and friend’s relationship remained murky.  He drew the line after filling Cas’ shopping list for the couple’s first foray into BDSM.  Nope, Sam was all set, so whenever Cas approached him with some obvious mission to make him scarce, Sam disappeared like David Copperfield at a mirror factory.

 

As Dean lay pinned beneath his angel, who gazed on his lover expectantly, he knew that lying was fruitless—Cas would know, he always knew.  Dean had learned the hard way, ass up, head down, thinking hard about how his actions led to consequences—often painful consequences—not to lie.  Lying led to punishment—serious punishment.  But that was not what this was about—this was play.

“I-I didn’t move my body, Sir.”

The super-highbrow was met by its twin.  “Oh, didn’t you?”

Dean looked away—damn, this was hard.  He really was conditioned against this, still, he trusted Castiel with every cell of his body, every inch of nerve endings and Cas would never bait him into serious trouble.  Dean could find that all on his own, thankyouverymuch.

“I stayed just as you put me, Sir,” Dean sighed out the sentence—knowing it sealed his fate.

“Whahhh—nooo!” Dean’s next sentence came out with much more volume, as a single nail trailed its way impossibly lightly up his rib cage, ending in a squeeze in his freckled armpit.  The cry was accompanied by an involuntary smiling grimace as well as a clutching at the offending digit, Dean’s whole body twitching. Dean’s other hand was still buried in foam, under the angel’s tight grip.  “C-c-come on, Cas!”

“Do you call this staying, Dean?  Are you right where I put you?” Somehow Castiel kept his face blank, serious, “And what did you call me—Boy?”

The evil finger made its slow, barely-there decent back down Dean’s ribs, sending the hunter in spasms and hopeless snickering.  His near-flaccid cock bobbed around, forgotten for the moment. The demon digit paused only long enough to slap Dean’s free hand away, then continued brushing lightly over the hunter’s skin, leaving behind an itchy wake of nerves.  Dean was beside himself, “No-n-no, Sir! I moved, I moved a f-fu-fuckload! St-top, I can’t, I—“

Mercy came to Kansas, Cas once again pinned both his hands to the bed, as Dean’s tickle aftershocks subsided and he caught his breath and composure once more.  The angel waited patiently for Dean to get a grip and once their eyes met again, he calmly repeated himself, “Did you stay, Dean?”

“No, Sir—I smiled, Sir.”

Cas leaned down and rewarded Dean with a chaste kiss on the forehead. “Good boy.”

The irony that he was being praised for telling the truth about something he previously lied about—and that it was concerning his disobedience, did not escape Dean.  But he didn’t care, Dean could give a rat’s ass their context—those words made something, somewhere deeper than his chest cavity do a happy little rhumba.  He felt warm, safe, calm—like rocking in a hammock in the sunshine, on a windless, bugless day.  Cat Stevens playing softly…somewhere.  Dean was happy.  Dean was home.

“But I’m still going to punish you.”  (Scratching record needle)

Cas released Dean’s hands and stood beside the bed.  Dean stayed—he and Cas’ relationship had made him adventurous and daring, trusting Cas to guild and support him through trying new things—but he wasn’t stupid.  Stay meant stay.

The hunter watched the angel slip off his trench coat, followed by his suit jacket.  Next, Dean expected the familiar (and tantalizing) sight of Cas unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves, but instead, his lover unbuckled his belt.

Shit.

Cas smirked slightly, not looking directly at Dean, but knowing the hunter’s reaction.  He knew Dean so well, in fact, that were they not playing, he would call the man out on his clenched bottom—straying from his order.  Castiel looked down at Dean and, as expected, his thighs were pressed together, as he involuntarily squeezed the intended target of belt in his hand.

“Relax,” he told Dean, as he turned away to hang his outerwear on the closet door.   “You’re my good boy, remember?”

That did it.  Dean’s buns sank down into the mattress, along with the rest of him and he lay calm and content, waiting for whatever Castiel had planned for his good boy.  Even Little Dean chilled.

“Up,” said Cas.  Dean sat up but stayed where he was, sitting awkwardly with his legs straight. 

Patting the edge of the bed, Cas beckoned to him and Dean obeyed, swinging his legs over the side.  Cas stood close to Dean’s knees, but the hunter’s eyes stayed level, focusing on the belt and on the hand that held it.  That extraordinary hand; that hand could kill, with a touch—and heal with one, too.  It could cause sharp pain or intense pleasure.  There was a time that Dean had only felt its weight on his shoulder, muffled by Winchester layers.  Now that hand’s touch on his bare skin was familiar as his own reflection.  Dean didn’t fear the belt, so much as he longed for the touch of that hand that held it.  Thank the stars, the hand’s partner cupped Dean’s chin and lifted his gaze. 

“I got you, baby.”

Nodding slightly, Dean dipped his chin, nuzzling his cheek against the warmth, momentarily closing his eyes.

“Turn over the edge, Dean—bottom out.”

And like that, Dean was moving.  He knew exactly how Cas wanted him, having been here many times before.  He rested his chest on the bed, knees locked, toes on the floor—his bottom standing at attention, bare for God and everyone to see. 

“Now, I told you to stay—I want you to stay.  Understand?”

Shit.

Dean nodded before speaking.  Staying in this position while taking stripe after stripe from the belt was not an easy feat.  In the past, he’d started many punishments this way, but Cas allowed him to relax as the pain built, knowing the hunter had difficulty keeping still during a spanking, let alone a whipping or an application of the much-maligned paddle.

As Dean drew his breath to answer, his angel came to his rescue. “I’ll help you, Dean.  Trust me.”

“Yes, Sir,” came Dean’s automatic answer.  Of course he trusted Cas.  But being told to do so gave him complete confidence that this was going to be _good_.  Little Dean agreed, happily.

Cas’ hand rubbed a big, reassuring circle around Dean’s pert backside, pausing to run his fingers in and out of its taut hills and valleys and grazing across his twitching hole, eliciting a purr from the hunter—while Little Dean did the Funky Chicken.

Then the magical hand of wonder was gone—

Shit.

SMACK!

Dean gave a yelp at the harsh slap, right across the center of his presented target, but quickly returned to purring, as the wonder hand reappeared, to soothe the sting.

SMACK!

Another rub.

SMACK!

As Castiel’s spanking hand again returned to Bruce Banner mode, Dean mused to himself how this sort of spanking was exactly what he found so, _so_ very annoying to watch, on porn sites.  And yet, it _felt_ so intoxicating, so arousing—so hot.  A line from a black and white comedy drifted across his mind: ‘ _Hit me again, it feels so good when you stop_.’

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

“OWOWOW!”  Ok, that broke with tradition.

Only a quick rub this time and Cas’ hand began to fall steadily.

Shit.

Dean began to wiggle, first up on his toes, then twisting side to side, then—aw, dammit—his locked knees gave.

Sweet mercy, the spanking halted and Cas’ punishing hand gentled, once again.  His other slid under Dean’s hip, lifting him back in position.  Dean sniffled into the bedspread, catching his breath, as Cas put some of the fire out.  Dean knew his angel had the power to heal away the pink glow from his behind, but chose not to.  This was a warm-up, bigger and better things to come.  Again, Little Dean enjoyed the caress—he had also taken notice of the proximity of Castiel’s left hand, still resting under Dean’s freckled hip.  The little bugger must’ve had it out for Dean, though, as he inched his way towards that hand.

A vice clamped down on Dean’s hip, and the soothing stopped.  “I said _stay_.”

Shit.

Both hands were gone and Dean’s body struggled to adapt to the sudden void, to the loneliness.  He heard the belt buckle, as Cas adjusted his grip on the leather. 

CRACK!

Dean danced.  He drummed his toes on the rug, all the while thinking ‘ShitShitShit.’   Cas’ hand was back, but not to quiet the screaming stripe across his bottom.  Instead, Dean felt the hand on his thigh, just above the back of one knee.  It just rested there, as Dean stilled under it, calmed. 

“Ready?”

Cas never asked him if he was ready during a real punishment.  Dean got slung over his angel’s knee or bent over a chair or table with little ceremony.  Once Dean was clear on why he was being punished, Cas set about his task almost mechanically, methodically, systematically.  In the beginning, Dean would shout obscenities at his friend, calling him merciless, mindless—heartless.  There was one time he told the angel to go to Hell, something Dean still felt pangs of guilt over.  But once their relationship developed, Dean learned that Cas _had_ to spank him that way.  Castiel couldn’t bear to hear Dean in distress, in pain—and the hunter’s tears tore at the angel’s grace, wounding it in ways he had trouble putting into words.  Dean asked him once if that could be the origin of “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”  Cas didn’t understand that reference.

But for all the robotic approach the angel brought to discipline, his methods of comforting could win him “Daddy of the Year.”  Dean Winchester wasn’t much of a cuddler or a hugger, Hell—he didn’t like to stand too close to anyone, save for his brother.  But it was astounding how a bright red bottom could turn the hunter into a cling-on, worthy of his childhood t-shirt, ‘I Wuv Hugz.’ And Castiel was only too happy to make up for every chick-flick moment Dean had ever passed up.  Sometimes he held Dean for hours after a spanking, the hunter often falling asleep in his angel’s arms.  

Dean answered without words.  He stiffened his legs and raised his aching bottom, preparing for another lick.

CRACK!

The belt landed just under the first line of fire, making Dean holler, bouncing in place on his toes, but staying more or less where he was.  The hunter breathed through his teeth, wiping the moisture from the corner of his eyes on his forearms. 

This time Dean was rewarded with a friendly pat, followed by the soothing palm across the fire trail.  Dean relaxed, marginally.

Little Dean, who was known to run and hide at just the sight of leather, was out and about, acting social and even looking for his shadow.  Dean thought he’d never judge a spanking porn again.

CRACK! CRACK!

Shit.

Dean was again caught off guard, the third and fourth stripes catching him lower, where he sat— _very_ tender territory.  Dean Winchester, hunter of foul monsters and demons alike, let out a loud sob, as his knees once again gave.

“P-please, Cas…”

But Cas was already there, smoothing gentle fingers along that oh-so sensitive spot, his angel strength supporting Dean's full weight, with only the single hand under his lover’s waist. 

“Ssshhhh, Baby, you’re doing well.  My good boy.”

Dean let his tears soak into the memory foam, resting on Cas’ hand and trying to focus on his touch through the throbbing in his bottom.  He’d been punished with this very belt before, receiving many more licks, but they had been fast—and he hadn’t been made to keep still.  Not that he had—Dean was immediately disappointed in himself, when he lost his footing again and Cas’ praise came just in time to pull him back from his self-loathing.

CRACK!

The only thing that kept Dean from sinking to the floor was Castiel’s unyielding support.

“Please, Cas, please…”

Cas gave him time to recover, then lowered Dean to his knees, the hunter’s chest resting against the edge of the bed.  There was an audible clunk.  Dean had begged Cas, yet hadn’t used his safe word. Still, “We’re done with that,” the angel announced, still rubbing Dean’s glowing rear.  Dean allowed himself a shuddery sigh, followed by a sharp intake of breath, as Castiel wound his grip around Little Dean.  With steady pressure, the angel began to stroke Dean’s cock slowly, lingering at the head, where Dean liked it most.  The hunter let out a moan, as his dick stood at attention and thrummed slightly with building intensity.

SMACK!

Not quite as hard and much milder than the belt, the sting of the slap mingled with pleasure in Dean’s cock, heightening his excitement.  The hunter ground his forehead against the bed, his moans growing louder.  “Cas…oh, Cas…”

And like that, Cas was even closer, stroking his thumb in circles through the pre-cum on Dean’s  cock head, his deep voice rumbling in the hunter’s ear, “ _What_ did you call me?”

SMACK!

“Sir…Cas Sir…”

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

Cas’ hand fell into a steady rhythm, keeping time with his magnificent tugging on Dean’s cock.

“Say my name, Dean.”

“Cas.”

SMACK!  A much harder slap, right on top of the previous one.

“Castiel!”

The spanking continued, evening out the color on Dean’s tight backside, clenching under Cas’ hand as the hunter thrust his cock harder into his grip.

“C-Castiel…my angel…Castiel.”

His angel pumped his cock faster, harder, his spanking hand quickening with the rhythm.  Absently, Dean thought of the feat of patting his head while rubbing his tummy.   It was a fleeting thought, however, as the hunter felt the heat rise in his abdomen, he was close—so, so close.

Cas pressed his lips against Dean’s ear.

“Good boy.”

That did it. Dean came in Cas’ hand, along his own stomach, and across the rug.  The spanking finally ceased, as Cas milked his lover dry, keeping his hold on him steady, even after he was spent. The angel leaned his chin on a freckled shoulder and spoke softly to its owner, while resting a hand gingerly on his glowing bottom.  “You did so well, Dean, I’m so proud of you.  Do you even know how beautiful and loved you are?”

Cas’ hand left Dean's limp cock (both miraculously clean) and stroked his fingers through his hunter’s sweaty hair.  Dean looked up, his face stained with tear tracks—and wet with fresh ones. 

“Why are you crying, Dean?  Do you need me to heal your spanking?”

Again, a question Castiel would never ask, had this been a punishment.

“No, I’m ok, Cas.  It’s just, sometimes I wonder if you know how

beautiful and loved _you_ are.”

Cas rose to his feet, scooping Dean up with him and spinning him around, “I do now.”

Dean’s smile broke through his tears, as he wrapped his arms around Cas’ neck, hanging on tight.

“That’s much better, Dean.  I love that smile.”

“You know how else you can make me smile?”

Dean leaned in close to Castiel’s ear and whispered his request.

The angel tossed the naked man onto his bed, looking like he could eat him alive, as he opened his dress pants.

“Good boy.”


End file.
